


Nineteen Year Old Wisdom

by rostropovich



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Capital Punishment, Edrington is a young'un, Execution, Saint Denis, Saint Denis Basilica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 11:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rostropovich/pseuds/rostropovich
Summary: A newly commissioned Lord Edrington must carry out an unforgiving punishment, per the Articles of War , and begins to understand the curses of being a leader.





	Nineteen Year Old Wisdom

_ “To my loving wife, siblings, and mother: _

_ I pray this letter finds you in good health. I have been fortunate enough to say that I myself have been kept safe by God and the able-bodied men in my Battalion. Thank you all for the kind natal-day wishes. Nine and ten years feels a strange bit like eight and ten...needless to say, no new wisdom has been bestowed upon me, but I shall keep you informed in the case that some nine and ten year old knowledge happens upon me, ha ha ha! _

 

_ To my odd Brother, Richard: _

_ We have been marching north of Paris to the town of Saint-Denis, which has been secured by an exhausted full battalion and is now being passed to my control. The weather here is as anyone would expect France to be -- bleak, depressing, miserable. The game here is nothing impressive; most of the pheasants and larger game are just as underfed as the people. A blanket of clouds shrouds the sky at all hours of the day and only passes when the night is too cold to support them. A ruin of a windmill lies to the southern fields, and a massive cemetery to the north. In the middle of the town is the Saint Denis Basilica. I find that all of these points will intrigue you, and so I have included rough sketches of them. _

 

_ My dearest Sister, Lucy: _

_ As we have marched through the french ruins, I have begun a small horde of trinkets and tchotchkes that I think would befit your fancy. Some of the civilians here tell of ghosts of the Kings of France buried in the crypt beneath the Basilica. They claim that ghouls molest them whilst they worship in the cathedral, playing the organ high in the chamber and stirring the dust in the thuribles. However, the only creatures that haunt the crypt below are Frogs taking cover from the arm of His Majesty’s Army! I am taking a patrol down within a fortnight to snuff them out, and perhaps I will find you a treasure from the brow of a French King.  _

 

_ My loving Mother, _

_ I am safe. Our position in St Denis is but an opportunity for retreat, control, and resupply, as well as a chance to keep an eye on Paris. I know that will not put your dear heart at ease, but I hope it will at least quell your mind and its questions. Thank you for the care packages you send, as well. They always find me in a good state and in the right times. Though I know the sweets are intended for me, I have a poor habit of sharing with the younger boys under my command who are not as fortunate to have a mother as sweet as thee (I told them I am writing to you and they request more gingersnaps).  _

 

_ My darling Wife, Adelaide, _

_ I cannot think of a day that goes by when I do not think of you and the rays of sunshine that emanate from your fair face. To hold you, to hear your laugh would be enough the quench the thirst of a dying man. I hope you enjoy sleeping in our bed alone whilst it lasts, as I hope to soon steal your autonomy away from you, sooner rather than later. Please tell me how your garden fares, and my hounds as well. Keep a watchful eye on my family, as it won't be long until we establish one we can call our own. I thank God daily for your health and your love.  _

 

_ Expect a package containing small gifts for you all, appropriately labelled. I impatiently await your replies and look forward to the day when I can see you all with my own eyes.   _

 

_ Yours, &c, _

_ Major Lord Lawrence Bram Edrington of the Five and Ninety Foot Half Battalion of His Majesty’s Royal Army” _

 

Bram set the quill down with a heavy sigh and rubbed his eyes tiredly. The soldiers had taken boarding in the homes and inns of the small French town. The villagers had been less than pleased, but obviously relieved at having some security from the bloodbath occuring not fifty kilometres south of them. He had been given a quaint room looking out at the windmill and the fields beyond it. The wooden walls were chipping, and the hearth opposite the foot of the small, uneven bed was much too small to properly warm the room. 

He sealed the inkwell tightly and gently placed it in his pack. Wax paper crinkled and he gently pulled out the broken and sorry package of cookie shards. Bram’s mouth watered at the sight of the last of the molasses cookies he had loved so much. He folded the wax paper with finality, shoving it back in the pack. Going to the crackling hearth, he messily made his seal on the envelope and left his room.

Bram jogged downstairs to the parlour and cleared his throat awkwardly, signalling the young landlady sweeping up the floor. She turned and glanced at him inquisitively. “La poste, mademoiselle,” he said in his poor French. “Un lettre pour ma famille.”

“Ta famille?” she echoed.

“Yes - ah, oui.”

“Je l'enverrai quand le facteur viendra le jour du Sabbat,” she said. Edrington could no longer understand her, but it sounded affirmative and her hand was outstretched, so he gave it to her. Her fingers deliberately traced across his and he drew away with disgust and a narrowed eye. 

The door opened. “My lord?”

“Yes, sergeant?”

“It’s time for - ”

“Yes, let me get my coat.” He walked briskly back up the stairs, trying not to jog. Grace, maturity, severity. Those were the qualities that he needed to exude - not the flustered nonsense of childishness. Edrington, stomach quickly filling with nerves, fell to his knees before his things and shuffled through them. Ah! There it is...He took his military manual and leafed quickly through the pages until he found what he was looking for:

“The Garrison is to be under arms…to form three sides of a Square, the fourth side to the sea being left open; each Corps in Garrison… will furnish one Sergeant, one Corporal, and a private from which the firing party for the Execution of the prisoner… is to be formed; the Senior Sergeant will take the Command of this party, the privates will be formed at a small distance in front of the spot where the prisoner will Suffer,  in one Rank, the Corporals in their rear as a Reserve, the Sergeants in rear of the Corporals. Corporals and privates to load with Ball Cartridges, immediately after they are formed… one Subaltern, one Sergeant, one Corporal, and 10 privates…. to escort the prisoner to the place of Execution.”

He quickly read through it once more before putting it away and slinging his coat and hat on, giving one last passing glance in the dusty mirror before heading downstairs and out to the town square. 

The late October evening air was almost bitter, and his breath rose into the greatening darkness.

All eyes seemed to fall on him as he shut the inn door behind him. The half battalion and seemingly the entire town had gathered in the square just before the basilica. He scoffed at the sight of it. The French and their thirst for blood…

He walked to his sergeant’s side and let his eyes glaze over the fine arrangement of soldiers, muskets in hand. Edrington counted them each and made sure the only opening was to the sea. The sergeant looked like he wanted to speak up, wanted to ask if everything was in order, but he suddenly seemed to know better. Edrington felt sick, despite the lawfulness of the entire situation. Despite the fact that he had killed men before. 

The Major looked to the musicians under his jurisdiction, and the snares and fifes rang out shrill and strong. It was the Death March, and the convict was led before the firing squad as the dreary tune echoed in the night. He had been stripped of his coat and hat. His hands were bound behind his back, but they were useless. Who would run now?

The private, a Mister Thomas Spencer from London, had been caught the first night they had taken residence in Saint Denis, trying to run. On his person were the rations of his bunkmates and enough powder to last two weeks. Though he never voiced his concerns, Bram had stayed up a number of nights, wondering if there was anything he could do or say to prevent this. The only other options would have them both killed. 

“We need a priest, m’lord,” the Sergeant spoke up.

Edrington’s heart dropped quick and hard. Half battalions didn’t have chaplains of their own...The only substitute available was of French nationality. That would not do, no, Edrington respected Thomas enough to give him better than a Frog. He took a deep breath, hoping beyond reasonable measure that he would remember the words, and spoke loud and true, “O, most gracious and merciful God, we earnestly beseech thee to have pity and compassion upon our unhappy brethren  Private Thomas Spencer,  who now lie under sentence, and are appointed to die. Visit them, O Lord, with thy mercy and salvation; convince them of the miserable condition they are in by their sins and wickedness; and let they powerful grace produce in them such a godly sorrow and sincere repentance, as thou wilt be pleased to accept.  Give them a strong and lively faith in thy Son, and blessed Saviour and make it effectual to the salvation of their souls.  O Lord, in judgement remember mercy, and whatever sufferings, they are to endure in this world, yet deliver them, O God, from the bitter pains of eternal death.  Pardon their sins, and save their souls, for the sake and merits of thy dear Son, our blessed Saviour and Redeemer.  Amen.” 

“Amen,” muttered the crowd.

And then, in a harsher, barking yell, Edrington spoke again. “Garrison! Present arms!” The sound of muskets rattling to life rang through the town square, now deathly silent. Even from a distance, Edrington could see the convict’s face gleaming with tears, lips quivering. Every man condemning him had felt the same feelings that drove the man to desert. Bram himself could identify with the crushing loneliness, the despair, the depression. Perhaps he too felt the futility that Thomas did. “Take aim!” Edrington took a breath. Their eyes met, only for a moment. Spencer’s eyes were almost black in the night, but the Major knew that in the late summer sun, they had been a brilliant green. Bram could not read what he saw, and he liked to blame it on the distance. The look could’ve been anything: fear, a plea for mercy, a look of regret. It didn’t matter anymore. They both knew what had to be done. “Fire!” The smoke seemed to rise before the guns shouted, raising in the air like a holy shroud hiding Spencer’s soul as it rose to be with God. His body, on the other hand, was already in the mud, damned like a convict should be. 

The crowd dispersed boredly. A firing squad was nowhere near as dramatic as a guillotine. 

A splitting headache ravaged Edrington’s skull, and the sound of muskets firing rang through his ears. “Orders, m’lord?” the sergeant asked.

Edrington blinked out of his trance. “I want three hour watches continuously tonight, men at each entrance to the town. I don’t count on any action this far north of Paris. They’ve their own business to worry about.”

“And the body?”

Bram glanced over at where it was slumped in a inhuman shape. “Have it buried in local cemetery. I hate for it to lie here in France, but he chose his fate.”

“Yes, m’lord. May I speak freely?”

He scrutinized him, startled at the request. “You may, sergeant, but that does not excuse the contents of what you say, should I find them untoward.”

“You did well with this,” the elder officer commended. Edrington thought that the compliment shouldn’t have affected him, but he found himself relieved. “It’s no easy thing, that.” He jerked his head to the body.

“It is my duty and it is what is expected of me,” Bram said stiffly. 

“You’re hardly older than a boy, m - ”

“You forget your place, sergeant. I gave you orders, now fulfill them.” His words were ice, clipped and sharp like a frost. His subordinate submitted.

“I apologise, m’lord.”

“I forgive you.” 

They parted ways. Edrington went back to his room and took his coat and hat off, leaving them on the low armoire. He untied his queue and sighed with pleasure as his long hair was free from the tight confines. A metal carafe was left for him with cool water in it. Watching himself in the old mirror with periwinkle eyes, he poured a meagre amount in the basin and cupped his hands, lifting it to his face. He could taste the salty sweat as it washed off of his skin. 

Edrington sat down on the bed, and it creaked in protest. He leafed through his log of men, supplies, and orders, searching for Spencer’s name. Coming across it, he penned a brief note on the conditions of the man’s death, as well as the date and burial place. Morbidly curious, he read what he could find regarding him. He came across the birthdate and felt as if he could vomit. Thomas Spencer was only thirteen years old. 

He blew out the candles and put his things away and fell into bed. Edrington felt like he moved slowly, like a spectre might if he were to wander the world of the living. He burrowed under the cold covers and pulled the rough blankets to his shoulders. The bed was uncomfortable by his own standards, but it was a great deal better than sleeping on the earth, and so his body settled comfortably. His limbs stung with soreness, and his eyelids drooped low. Nevertheless, sleep evaded him. 

As he turned over and saw the sun beginning to rise over the windmill, a piece of nine and ten year old wisdom came to him: he was no longer a boy. However, these were the things he would never share with his family. Edrington could not speak for the dead kings of France, but Saint Denis was haunted, surely.   
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Sources:  
> 1\. http://www.warof1812.ca/punish1.htm#_edn20  
> 2\. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D05AB8xs7qA


End file.
